


end of days

by Renne



Category: Marvel 616
Genre: M/M, Post-Apocalypse, Survivor Guilt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-16
Updated: 2012-11-16
Packaged: 2017-11-18 19:12:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/564326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Renne/pseuds/Renne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Mayans were right with one thing. The world ended in 2012. In which Bucky thought he was the only one left, but discovers he's wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	end of days

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on tumblr for hammerheadyak.

_I told my therapist I was having nightmares about nuclear explosions. He said don’t worry, it’s not the end of the world._  — Jay London

 

Bucky’s always been lucky, in a way. Oh, he wouldn’t have called himself lucky to be blown up by an exploding drone, or turned into a brain-washed assassin by the Russian government, but he’s lucky, really, if you could call it that, because he survived, and because the world ended and he survived that too, and he found a stash of weapons in a cracked crate in the crater that was the helicarrier, and he’s been able to find food and shelter and first aid supplies when needed. If that’s lucky, then that’s what he is.

He walks because he’s seen what happens to those who try to drive. He sticks to the coast because no one else will go near the contaminated sea, and the smell of rotting sea-things doesn’t bother him. (As he’s not bothered, out here, because even though he’s alone, he’s dangerous and clearly, obviously armed. Having a metal arm probably helps.)

He finds Namor thirteen days after the sea recedes. It’s dumb, stupid luck; there’s a lump in the sand and a flock of gulls flutters and settles and flutters again. The lump isn’t dead.

Bucky realises it’s a body, and toes it over onto it’s back. He’s—is he surprised that it’s Namor? He doesn’t know. But Namor is alive somehow, alive and covered in wounds and wasted away. Bucky drags him to higher ground, off the reeking sand. 

Namor rouses when Bucky starts to methodically clean his wounds, willing to sacrifice his pure water for someone still likely to die. (Bucky will risk it though, because it’s Namor, and because Bucky is lucky, remember? He will always find more water, and maybe some of his luck will rub off too.)

In a voice sandpaper rough, Namor eventually asks, “Where is everyone else?” as he glares at Bucky, like this—all of it—is his fault.

Bucky stares back.

There’s a long, long pause. Then Namor’s shoulders slump. “It’s just you, isn’t it.” It’s not a question when they both know the answer. It’s Bucky. It’s just Bucky.

There’s another long pause, as Bucky continues to clean the wounds. “The captain?” Namor eventually asks.

Bucky’s mouth tightens and he shakes his head almost imperceptibly. He can’t talk about those he’s lost, when he’s lost everyone. Almost everyone. “Here.” He passes Namor an unopened bottle of water. “Drink.” He’s damned if he’s going to lose Namor too.

 

They’re five days out of Cleveland, camped in what’s left of an abandoned gas station. The shop has already been looted, but the attached garage is still locked, the scratches and gouges around the lock showing that someone, at least, had made an attempt to get in.

It’s not difficult for Bucky, who could force the door but instead picks the lock, because he wants to lock it again when they’re inside. There’s a skylight—miraculously unbroken—that alleviates the gloom a little, and when he shines his flashlight around he sees it’s nothing but a typical garage.

“Is there anything?” He hears Namor ask, where he guards the open garage door. He sounds tired, and his voice is rough with the grief that Bucky doesn’t know how to deal with, grief for an entire civilisation wiped off the maps, and Namor the only one to survive because Bucky was  _there_. If its not grief, it’s towering anger, and Namor takes his anger out on Bucky a lot; they fight with words and fists, to hurt, to open old wounds, to break and bleed.

Bucky knows Namor blames him, thinks that if it wasn’t for Bucky he wouldn’t have survived. Thinks Bucky was selfish for saving him, but then they both think that, because Bucky couldn’t let Namor die too.

“Hang on,” Bucky says. He sweeps the flashlight around again, certain there’s something there.

The heavy stink of grease distracts him a moment, but he’s used to looking for the unusual and it takes him only a moment to spot a small door set into one of the walls, behind a mig welder and a couple of gas bottles. The door, when he forces it open, leads down a short, cramped tunnel to a bunker. It’s furnished, fully stocked and clearly abandoned.

(His luck still holds. Somehow, his goddamn luck still holds.)

“We can stay here,” Bucky calls. He doesn’t think about where the intended occupants might have gone, because he’s given up on useless wondering; instead he tries not to remember who’s gone and who’s never coming back.

Ducking through the doorway, Namor steps into the bunker. It’s still odd to see him in human clothing, Bucky thinks, but for the pointed ears and the somewhat alien features he passes well enough as just another human survivor, dirty and dusty and armed.

Bucky spreads his hands and raises a brow. “Well?”

Namor looks around the small bunker and sniffs. “Adequate,” he says and Bucky can’t help the way his mouth curves into a smile, because he knows sometimes Namor is a jerk just because he thinks it’s expected.

“Here.” He tosses Namor a bottle of water—fresh water, and Bucky can see there’s a tank and a filter and jesus, for all how shitty the place above ground looks, he thinks the owners must have pumped all their cash into the bunker once it was clear the end of the world was nigh.

Catching the bottle, Namor sets it aside with a hateful grimace and Bucky sighs, rubs his fingers through his hair. “Please,” he says. Pleads. He’ll plead for this.

Namor just gives him a bitter look.

Before the end of the world Bucky wouldn’t be stronger than Namor, but Namor never really recovered from the contamination of the sea, so a short, vicious scuffle ends with Bucky pinning Namor to the floor.

“I did ask you nicely,” Bucky reminds Namor and Namor grins, sharp like a shark, teeth bloody from Bucky’s elbow and he realises that Namor did this deliberately. “Wait—”

Namor flips them, hand tightening on Bucky’s throat and there’s a moment where it could go either way before Namor’s mouth is on his and Bucky, he—he can’t think, gripping the front of Namor’s jacket, desperate, Namor’s nails biting into the skin over his collarbone and his teeth sharp on against Bucky’s lips, but Bucky just gasps, groans, tries to ground himself, hooking his fingers over Namor’s belt and pushing up against him.

Bucky twists, the floor hard against his shoulders as they grapple, chasing Namor’s mouth when he pulls back to pant for breath, hungry for a touch that won’t solve any of their problems. Then Namor’s thigh slides between his and he arches up, pushing against the friction, fire in his veins for the first time in—

“Fuck,” he says, and the breath he draws in is almost a sob, because this is all they have left, and Namor leans in again, his mouth and hands hard and needy and everything in between, and this is really all they have left.

As Namor gasps his name ( _James_ ) and his fingers dig into Bucky’s thigh to pull him close, urgent and shattering, he’s not alone, he’s not alone, and that’s—he can live with that, with this. He can live with  _this_.


End file.
